The Leman's Alphabet
by Lori von Loco
Summary: Twenty-six oneshots for Stary, Clebe, and Gregstophe. Chapter twelve: Gregstophe, "Leman."
1. Abatjour

**The Leman's Alphabet**

**A/N: **This was created for three reasons: 1) I was bored one day at 3 a.m. 2) I've always wanted to do an ABC-themed chapter fic. 3) I felt like trying my hand at some couples I don't normally write for. This chapter is Clebe, the next Stary, then Gregstophe; it continues in that pattern throughout the story.

I used _The Phrontistery _as inspiration. I found each chapter's word and its definition on that site.

So, after much stalling on my part, I bring to you The Leman's Alphabet! As of today, exactly half of these oneshots have been written, so this story should be updated once a week, and I hope to do so every Friday. After the first thirteen are posted, updates will continue as usual unless I don't have the chapter written yet, in which case it could be posted on any given day.

-x-

_**Abatjour: **__Skylight or device to direct light into a room._

[Clyde & Bebe]

Clyde took delight in rare miracles. Living in South Park meant that miracles were hard to come by, anyway, but he was supremely blessed with the rarest of them in two separate forms now, as he stood not ten inches away from the gaping mouth of a great white shark, only divided from its glinting teeth by a pane of specially-made glass.

The aquarium itself was nice, but the first miracle wasn't so much the location as the emptiness of it. For once, Clyde thought, living in a small mountain town had its benefits. There weren't many people to bother him—only a lone female tourist, then Wendy and Stan, who, thankfully, were quiet and kept to themselves, bypassing Clyde without a second glance and focusing instead on swinging their joined hands between them. He was able to stand there in blissful silence, bathed in a blueish light from the water on the other side of the glass.

Though the silence was broken some moments later, he wasn't bothered. In fact, the voice that had drifted through the air was from his other miracle, a girl named Bebe. She asked him if he'd seen the smaller shark in the back of the tank; he shook his head, moving so that he was at her side.

She grinned and pointed the shark out to him, then wandered down the dimly lit hall with the accompanying sound of clicking heels.

Clyde watched her with a fond smile as he followed, enamored more by the way the sun shining through skylight above them made her hair glow gold than by the marine life he had actually come to see.

When he sighed, Bebe turned around to grab his hand and ask him what the matter was. The only thought that occupied his brain was to lean down and kiss her, so that was exactly what he did, only pulling away for a brief moment to murmur the answer to her question against her lips.

Satisfied that there wasn't anything wrong, Bebe wound her arms around his neck and jerked him down a bit, earning a startled grunt from the brunette when their lips met with more force than before. She didn't seem perturbed by this, so Clyde simply settled his hands on her hips and followed the movement of her mouth.

He thanked God for his favorite miracle, who, his subconscious reminded him—as if he'd forgotten for a second—was the most breathtaking girl that ever did stand beneath the skylight's offering of muted sunbeams.


	2. Baisemain

_**Baisemain: **__Kiss on the hand._

[Stan & Gary]

**A/N: **This is only chapter two and I'm already posting late, lol. Updates are still every Friday, though, despite this mess-up. Sorry 'bout that!

-x-

The day Gary moved to South Park, Stan was frustrated, to say the least. He hadn't liked the unctuous nature of the blond, and he certainly hadn't liked the weird feeling that he got in his chest whenever said blond was around. It made him feel sick to his stomach, too, which was absolutely irritating in more ways than one. Yet he still felt oddly disappointed when the boy moved away some months later.

In retrospect, the signs should've alerted him to what was going on. Instead, it hit him all at once, nine years later on the sidewalk outside Tom's Rhinoplasty. Literally hit him, in fact. He only had enough time to register a vaguely familiar set of brown eyes and a well-managed shock of blond hair before the owner of those annoyingly attractive attributes rammed into his chest, effectively knocking him backward onto the cement below. Luckily, he'd been wearing his backpack, so his head avoided collision with the sidewalk, but there was still the matter of the boy currently on top of him to deal with.

Stan allowed himself the time to groan theatrically (it was only to gain an apology; he played football and was therefore used to being tackled) before he slowly propped himself up on his now-bloodied elbows to get a better look at the perpetrator.

The blond in his lap shot to a standing position so quickly that Stan's eyes blurred when they followed the movement. "So sorry! Terribly sorry!" That voice was way too familiar…

It took him a moment to pull the memory from the dark recesses of his brain, but once he had done so, he leapt to his feet as well, ignoring the sharp jab of pain in his backside. "_Gary Harrison_?"

"Yes, and I really am very s…! Well, fancy that. You remember me! Stanley Marsh, am I right? I remember you quite well, too."

Stan really didn't want to put it in the blond's head that he remembered him 'quite well,' so he mumbled a quick, "I, uh, sorta remember, yeah."

Gary surprised him by laughing. "Oh, Stanley—Stan, if I may be so rude…" Stan swallowed an odd lump in his throat and nodded. "Ah, don't be so hard on yourself, Stan. I know for a fact your memory is exceptional! You remember me, all right. You were so smitten back then that I swore you'd get ill on me one evening!" Again, he laughed, and Stan's face colored darkly.

"_Smitten_? Listen, dude, I sure as _fuck_ didn't have a thing for you. Not then, not now."

"Of course you don't _now_. Why would you point that out? The Mormon cocked his head suspiciously, then straightened up again the same instant a sly smile blossomed on his face. "Oh, Stan."

"Stop saying my name so much. It's creepy." Stan was feeling more uncomfortable (and queasy) by the second.

"Can do. I'm sure we can come up with a proper nickname at a later time, anyway." Gary reached into his pocket and withdrew a pen before he grabbed the noirette's wrist. Stan didn't know why he let him do so, nor did he know why he stood perfectly still—held his breath, even—whilst Gary wrote something on his hand in immaculate script, punctuating it with his phone number and following that up with a light, fluttering kiss on Stan's knuckles.

"There." The blond recapped the pen, deposited it back in the pocket of his slacks, and flashed the other boy what was quite possibly the most dashing smile he'd ever seen in his eighteen-year-old life. "I expect a call, Stan Marsh. Don't let me down." And with that, Gary was gone, brushing shoulders with a very red-faced Stan as he departed in the direction from which the noirette had come.

He stared at his hand, rereading the words "Call me sometime" until his eyes were sore and he was suddenly aware of the stinging in his elbows again, then quietly continued down the sidewalk.

He supposed it wouldn't hurt to call.


	3. Cacoepy

_**Cacoepy: **__Poor or wrong pronunciation._

[Gregory & Christophe]

"All right, say it with me, Chris: Am-bih-_dext_-struss. Ambidextrous."

"Ahm-bee-_dext_-striss. Ambidextrous."

"No, that's not—not quite right."

"Fuck this! I do not want to learn your stupid English pronunciation."

"You pronounced 'pronunciation' right. I have confidence in your ability to master the English accent."

"I do not like the English accent."

"At least I'm not trying to teach you the American accent."

"There isn't only one American accent, stupid."

"Point taken; likewise, there isn't just one English accent."

"…Your point is also taken. But I still do not care to learn your shitty manner of speech."

"_Shitty_."

"That's what I said."

"_That's_. With a 'th' sound."

"Is what I said!"

"Now you aren't even being grammatically correct, Christophe."

"Fuck grammar. Fuck you, too, Gregory."

"Not until you at least learn how to properly say 'ambidextrous.'"

"_Why_? That is one of the most useless words I have ever had the displeasure of learning."

"You say the word 'learning' oddly."

"I will see that you are crying on the floor oddly if you do not stop criticizing my accent."

"This was your dumb idea in the first place."

"It was not!"

"_It_, soft 'I' sound. And _was_."

"That's what I fucking said, you ass-faced cock rammer!"

"Now you're just being immature."

"I am not being immature, you are being immature."

"Soft 'I.'"

"_Imma-fucking-ture. _Immature!"

"Chris!"

"Forget it, I have had enough of—"

"No, I mean, you've pronounced immature correctly!"

"What?"

"Yes, you have!"

"Tch… Of course I have. It's not that hard, you are just a moron."

"Well, I'm proud of you."

"…_Merci_."

"_De rien_."

"Mm, Gregory?"

"Yes, love?"

"You pronounced '_rien_' wrong."

"Oh, shut up, you tosser."


	4. Depaysé

_**Depaysé: **__Out of one's element or natural environment._

[Clyde & Bebe]

If anyone saw the two of them—a petite, dress-clad blonde in the company of a stout brunette, who was still dressed in his school's football jersey—in their current standing position, they wouldn't be likely to think anything of it. Upon closer inspection, however, they might assume that the male of the couple was about to be violently ill; to him, it sure felt that way.

"I'm not sure this is a place where I'd fit in," the boy muttered, trying to avoid catching the eyes of the employees in the shop they were loitering in front of. "It's not quite my speed, if you know what I mean."

"It's okay, Clyde." Bebe's voice was warm and soothing, and Clyde wanted to give in, to believe her, but, despite her words, the situation in which he'd found himself did not feel okay to him. They currently stood outside a beauty parlor in the town's mall at the height of the teenage influx, one of them with eyebrows knitted together in a pleading manner, the other praying to every god he could think of that none of his friends would see him there.

"All right," he assented after some time, throwing a grimace in the parlor's direction, "but if anyone—especially the guys on the team—find me, we tell 'em I lost a bet with Token, okay? Token's a bro, he'll cover for me."

Bebe put her hands on her hips. "Are you trying to say there's something wrong with a guy going to a salon?"

"No! It's just, uh, the football players like to pick on each other and this is like fuel for the fire, ya know?"

The girl huffed, moving her hands from her hips to her forearms in exasperation. "You don't have to if you don't want to. I just thought it'd be something fun for us to do together."

There was a brief pause, then Clyde replied with, "Really? Cool, then. Let's not." Bebe rolled her eyes in an effort to look annoyed, but the brunette saw the way her shoulders slumped in disappointment and he groaned. "Okay, forget I said anything. I'll do it."

Instantly, her hands were on his forearm, squeezing with such fervor that Clyde worried it would bruise. Damn, Bebe was strong for such a small girl. Or maybe he bruised easily. He didn't have time to think about this before he was yanked into the salon and thrust into the nearest chair.

"Well," he began lightly, smiling for his girlfriend's sake, "um…this is a comfy chair."

The blonde giggled, and suddenly Clyde felt a lot better about the situation. That was enough to get him through an entire forty minutes of hair dyeing and twenty more spent on a manicure-pedicure, and, in all actuality, it wasn't all that bad.

Bebe left the salon with newly frosted curls, French-tipped nails, and a smug look on her face. "See, that wasn't bad!"

"My hair is, like, super fuckin' soft now," was Clyde's way of agreeing.

The girl laughed through her nose, pulling her phone out of her pocket and snapping a picture of the other while he was admiring his nails.

"Oh, God, c'mon, Bebe. You got me at the worst possible time."

"You still worried about looking 'girly'?"

"Shit, nah. I mean, you should get a picture where you can actually see my nails. See, like this." Presently, he held his hands up in front of his face and grinned, prompting Bebe to erupt into a fit of laughter.

"I'm glad you had fun," she managed to breathe out, snapping another picture with a slightly blurrier outcome due to her shaking hands.

"Glad I got to have fun with you."

At that, the cheerleader scoffed, punctuating this with a playful smack to Clyde's arm. Despite this, she responded with a smile and a cheerful, "Me, too."


	5. Eellogofusciouhipoppokunurious

_**Eellogofusciouhipoppokunurious: **__Good._

[Stan & Gary]

**A/N: **I couldn't resist such a beautiful word. But, gosh, one of the words under the E category was "ecclesiolatry," which means excessive devotion to church tradition, and I had to reluctantly pull away from that because it'd end up too much like the previous chapter for what I had in mind. Also, I can't publish this in peace without pointing out that I am aware the ending is grammatically incorrect, lol. It was purposeful.

-x-

"Stan! Stan. Oh, Staaaan?"

"_What_, Gary?"

"I need help with this boyfriend test!"

Every fiber of Stan's being told him not to look up, to stick to his book and pretend he'd never heard the words "boyfriend test" come out of Gary Harrison's mouth. But, of course, the noirette had an amazing penchant for ignoring his brain; he looked up.

A few feet away from the couch Stan was sitting on, Gary stood with some brightly-colored pop culture magazine in his hands, folded to the page with the offending quiz on it. "You just have to answer a few questions for me, please. I want to see if I'm a good boyfriend."

Stan raised an eyebrow and set his book down in his lap. "Of course you're a good boyfriend, dude. If you weren't, I wouldn't be, ya know, _dating _you."

"I just want to make sure." Those words were spoken in such a small, unsure voice so uncharacteristic of Gary that Stan was plagued with a strong sense of guilt for no particular reason.

"Yeah, okay! No problem, man. Go ahead and read the questions."

The blond perked up. Stan huffed a sigh as he sank low in his seat.

"First question," the former began brightly. "'How good is your boyfriend at remembering important dates? Example: Your anniversary, your birthday, etc.'"

"Uhh…good," Stan answered awkwardly, not exactly sure what to say. Gary didn't seem to mind, though, and he scribbled down what the other boy guessed was his lame response.

"Question two. 'How good is your boyfriend at communicating his feelings?'"

"Good…"

"All right. Three. 'Describe your boyfriend in one word.'"

Without putting any actual thought into it, Stan blurted, "Good," before he could stop himself.

"Four. 'How well does your boyfriend get along with your friends?'"

Here, Stan hesitated, contemplating whether or not he should tell the truth. His friends didn't like Gary too much, to be honest. They found him annoying. But should Stan tell him that? When he was still without a decision ten seconds later, he decided on replying with, "What does that matter? It's not like you're banging my friends. Why would getting along with them make you any less or any more of a good boyfriend?"

He expected the Mormon boy to demand a real answer, but, surprisingly, Gary seemed to be scribbling those words down in response.

"All right, that was it."

"That was it? You're gonna base your aptitude for being a good boyfriend based on four questions from a teen magazine?"

Gary bobbed his head in an occupied nod at first, but the question finally registered a few seconds later. "Well, when you put it that way…"

"Yeah…"

The blonde shrugged, flipping to the next page without a second thought. A moment passed in silence between them, and Stan hated the fact that the next words out of his mouth were, "So, how did I do?"

Gary looked up at him and smiled, blue eyes twinkling. "Good, Stan. You did good."


	6. Fandango

_**Fandango: **__Lively Spanish dance performed by a couple._

[Gregory & Christophe]

The air was tense, thickened by the bouts of hard concentration emanating from the two men in the room. These men swept across the lacquered wooden floor in smooth strides and spins, sharing only hissed insults every so often in voices just loud enough to rise above the soaring notes of the music they danced to.

"You stepped too soon," Gregory chided.

"You went the wrong way," Christophe returned, emphasizing his point by jerking them into a spin heading the opposition direction.

The blond grumbled something under his breath about over-controlling Frenchmen; Christophe picked up on it and cursed at him in answer, though this drew nothing but a smirk from the Brit.

"Closer," the latter demanded harshly. "You're too far away."

With a dramatic flair, Christophe tugged Gregory against his chest and spun them again, moving his hips in careful, calculated movements dangerously close to the other man's. Gregory returned the steps with the same level of practiced skill, laughing when this proved frustrating for the Frenchman.

"I'm supposed to be better at this than you!" Christophe snapped, nearly spinning them into a wall in his distracted burst of irritation. "I've been doing it for a longer period of time, damn it!"

"What can I say?" Gregory grinned, looking incredibly pleased with himself. "It's impossible to catch me off guard, even when it comes to dancing."

Christophe's eyes narrowed into slits, then widened again with an accompanying bark of laughter. "Oh?"

"Why, yes! You, of all people, would never be able—"

In the midst of the Brit's boasting, Christophe disregarded their timed steps to dip Gregory, holding him just inches above the floor. He'd meant it to be a way of startling the other, and, while it did work, the music they'd been playing abruptly ended at that exact moment, turning Christophe's moment of victory into nothing more than a very awkward position. He found himself standing in complete silence with Gregory in his arms, staring up at him with wide eyes and his arms still around the brunette's neck, his hands clutching tightly at the back of the other's shirt.

"This is…awkward," Christophe muttered, looking up at the ceiling.

"You're telling me." As this was spoken, the blond's grip on the Frenchman's shirt went lax, and it took Christophe a moment to realize that Gregory had moved his left hand to tangle in his hair, and the other had settled on his forearm.

"You're making it worse!" Christophe nearly shrieked this accusation and came close to dropping Gregory altogether. "Get your fucking hand off my fucking arm."

"All right," the Brit agreed, pressing the aforementioned hand to the other's chest instead and offering a challenging smile.

"_What_ are you doing?"

"I told you, I'm never caught off guard. I'm getting you back."

"Getting me back, huh? Well then, what do you say we take this challenge elsewhere?"

"I'd be delighted."


	7. Gemmate

_**Gemmate: **__To deck with gems._

[Clyde & Bebe]

He notices her on the playground for the first time in second grade, and he remembers thinking that she is the prettiest girl he's ever seen, with her two front teeth missing and her curly hair tied in pigtails at each temple. And it takes him a while, but he finally musters up the courage to say hello, which was something he was always glad he'd done.

They are in eighth grade when Bebe kisses him for the first time. Clyde recalls a feeling in his stomach that made him feel a little funny, which leads him to subconsciously wonder if he's going to get sick on her like Stan did with Wendy. He hopes he doesn't, and through a year of hand-holding, soft kisses, and whispered compliments, he's pleased to know that he isn't Stan Marsh, and he does not get sick on his blonde companion, not once.

Though they were never officially dating, it still hurts him when she runs off with Kyle in the ninth grade. He doesn't know why the redhead would interest her, because, after all, _he_ makes her laugh, and all Kyle does is fret about how he doesn't want to kiss her because he's afraid to, since he went and kissed Lola the year before and had his heart broken. She still dates him until tenth grade, but by the time they break up he still hasn't kissed her, and maybe Clyde is just a tiny bit relieved by that.

He finally asks her out by the fence surrounding the empty park when they are both eighteen, earning a smile that twinkles in the moonlight just like the diamonds in her ears do—perhaps even brighter than that. All Clyde knows is that he could buy her all the gems in the world, but they still wouldn't sparkle in the same way that lovely smile of hers did.

He does, however, buy her a gem: A clear, gleaming diamond ring when they are twenty-four, which he gets down on one knee to present to her. When she says yes, there are tears in her eyes; when he carefully slides the ring into her finger, they are no longer just in her eyes, but on her cheeks as well. She hugs him tightly, and then flashes him that beautiful, beautiful smile that would always be prettier to Clyde than diamonds.


	8. Haptotrophic

_**Haptotrophic:**__ Curving in response to touch._

[Stan & Gary]

**A/N: **Haptotrophic usually pertains to plants, hahaha. Oh, well.

-x-

"You're beautiful," Stan breathed. He ran a hand through Gary's hair.

The latter responded with a smile. "As are you. Moreso than I." He lightly gripped the other's chin and pulled him into a kiss before Stan could argue.

Both boys were curled on Gary's sofa, reveling in the temporary absence of the Harrison family, all of whom had gone grocery shopping just ten minutes beforehand. It was rare that Gary was left home alone, so the impetus to invite Stan over was the first one he felt, as well as the first one he followed. It was another rarity for Gary to blindly follow his impulses, as he was one to consider his options at length before making a decision, but, then again, his boyfriend was quite the opposite, and perhaps that mindset was beginning to rub off on him.

Exhibit A, the blond mentally noted, was that he was the one with his hands all over the other boy, when it was usually Stan that got touchy-feely first. Stan didn't seem to mind, however, if his small sighs and grunts against Gary's mouth were anything to go by. The latter could only imagine what kind of fit his parents would pitch if they knew what he was doing, and the thought very nearly made him laugh in the middle of his and Stan's kiss.

Luckily he refrained from doing so, though the way Stan's back was arching under Gary's touch was quickly destroying any sort of composure he held. But, of course, he would try to maintain his self-discipline and ignore the fact that more than just Stan's mannerisms were currently rubbing off on him. That was the plan, but the moment he pulled away from their kiss and withdrew his hands, his name left the noirette's mouth in the form of an urgent murmur.

Self-discipline be damned. Soon enough, he'd pushed Stan backward onto the couch, and the last thing he remembered thinking coherently was that he rather enjoyed the way his companion's spine curved just the slightest bit when Gary's fingers skimmed it.


	9. Inaurate

_**Inaurate: **__Gilded; golden._

[Gregory & Christophe]

Christophe never realized it—or, rather, he'd never dwelled on the thought once he_ had_ realized it—but Gregory was the quintessence of peace when he slept. This wasn't true of him while he was awake, of course, for he was as fiery, opinionated, and action-oriented as they came was when he was alert enough to present himself as such. He rivaled even Christophe in that sense, which the Frenchman would never admit aloud. But when he was sleeping, he was what one might call an angel if they felt inclined to (Christophe told himself he didn't, but that was a lie.)

The dark-haired male stirred underneath the white sheets of his bed to prop himself up on one elbow, then cast a begrudging stare at the alarm clock sitting on the end table beside Gregory's half of the bed. He'd have to see the Brit off in about ten minutes, lest his mother come home to catch her son in bed with some boy she didn't know, yet he couldn't bring himself to disturb him.

Unlike himself, Gregory slept in one position throughout the night. He still had his arm outstretched from where he'd draped it over Christophe's waist, even though the latter had long since moved from that position (and was decently surprised he didn't roll back over onto the limb), and his legs remained in the same position they'd been in when the duo had fallen asleep—almost completely straight, with the knees crooked the slightest bit. He'd even been lying with his hand under his cheek all night, which the Frenchman bet would ache like a bitch when he finally decided to wake up. (To be fair, his hand wasn't the only thing that would be aching, Christophe thought, a smirk drawing one corner of his mouth upward.)

The thing that caught him most off guard, however, was how Gregory's hair appeared to be tangible gold. Since he was lying on his side, facing away from the widow, the recently-awoken sun was able to peer through the sloping blinds and highlight each strand of blond so they practically glowed. Even the sweeping curl that had fallen across the teen's closed eyes seemed brighter, giving Christophe a rather warm feeling in his chest that he was too groggy to be properly disgusted by.

Without thinking about it, he reached over and tucked that errant curl back into its proper place behind Gregory's ear, which marked the exact moment the blond opened his eyes.

"Good m—"

"Shut the fuck up," Christophe hissed, mortified by what he'd been caught doing. He refused to admit to himself that his face had heated to a considerably dark red color, but it was a detail he couldn't exactly prove false.

Gregory had the nerve to laugh, and Christophe's stupid inner self had the nerve to find the sound pretty.

"Thank you for the lovely greeting, Chris." The Brit turned and sat up, allowing the sheets to bunch around his bare hips before he stretched his arms above his head. "Mmmmgh… Goodness, what time is it?"

"Time for you to leave." Christophe had meant to grumble it, but it came out as more of a reluctant notification.

"Oh, that's a shame." Still smiling, Gregory plopped back down onto his pillow and rolled onto his side again to catch the other's lips in a kiss. "I'll see you again sometime soon, yes?"

The Frenchman blinked, turned his head away to scoff, then looked back. "Yeah, whatever."

"Fantastic." With that, the Brit hopped up to get dressed, wincing in the process and putting the self-satisfied smirk back on the other's face. "See you later, dear," he practically cooed upon finishing, throwing a wink in Christophe's direction before disappearing from sight.


	10. Jumbal

_**Jumbal: **__Thin, crisp, sweet cake._

[Clyde & Bebe]

Bebe had to admit, just from watching the way Clyde worked among bowls of eggs and flour, piles of dough, and sheets of wax paper, it was evident that he was a brilliant baker. She knew that his mother had been a good cook, but the boy never confided in her that he was, too—until today, anyway. In fact, she had been under the impression that it pained him to talk about anything relating to his mother, but he didn't seem too upset at the moment.

Currently, he was rolling dough for some kind of miniature cake that Bebe had never known existed, and he spoke of Misses Donovan with a smile, even laughing sometimes when he would recall some of the stupid things they'd argued about in the past.

"Toilet seats, of all the things to get on my case about," he murmured with a shake of his head. "And, I mean, I was _ten_, for Christ's sake." At that, a smile of fond remembrance quirked his lips upward; he heaved a sigh and returned his attention to the pieces of dough he was now forming into something resembling flat doughnuts. "Next month'll be the sixth anniversary of her death."

Bebe lowered her gaze to the countertop and began tracing invisible patterns on it. "Are you guys going to visit her grave?"

"Yeah." There was a short stretch of silence, which was eventually marred by the scraping of the cookie sheet going into the oven and then persisted for a moment longer before Clyde broke it with a question. "Did you want to come?"

"What?" Bebe's head shot up; she regarded her boyfriend with wide eyes. "Me? But, I mean, that's a pretty special event. I don't know if I…"

"If you…?"

"If I would be welcome."

Clyde smiled warmly at her, and all at once she remembered why she liked him so much—he made her amazingly, undeniably happy when she least expected it.

"Of course you would be, Bebe." He reached across the counter that divided them between kitchen and dining room to lay his hand over hers. "Mom would've loved you."

Without realizing it at first, the blond began to tear up a bit. With a sniffle and a brief laugh, she replied, "I bet I would've loved her, too, Clyde."


	11. Kouros

_**Kouros: **__Statue of a nude male._

[Stan & Gary]

All day, Stan had been good about containing his laughter. He'd gone to a local thrift store earlier that afternoon, caught sight of a very _intriguing_ plastic statuette, and managed to remain completely calm as he bought it; he was able to set it up in his living room without a single chuckle; he had even faced Kyle's reaction to it with a completely serious expression when the redhead visited his and Gary's shared apartment. Not one peal of laughter had escaped until exactly ten seconds ago, when his blond roommate took one step into their apartment, caught sight of the statue, and stopped in his tracks.

"Stan?"

"Yeah, dude?"

"Pardon me, but…what is _that?_"

That, coupled with the look on Gary's face, finally got Stan to lose his composure. He was gripping his sides, practically wheezing, and the entire time the Mormon simply stood there in the doorway, keys in hand, staring with narrowed eyes at the naked Morgan Freeman that now adorned one of their end tables.

"Where did you even get that?"

"The thrift store up the street," Stan managed to choke out before he collapsed on the couch. "Don't you love it?" The long pause that followed had the dark-haired boy laughing even harder. "_I_ love it."

To his surprise, the other flashed him a sweet smile. "I'm glad you like it so much, Stan, because you're sleeping out here with it tonight."

All at once, Stan's laughter quieted to nervous chuckles. "Hey, wait a second, man. It was just a joke."

Gary ignored him in favor of closing the front door and then heading into their shared bedroom, locking it behind himself.

"Gary? Come on, Gary!" Still, no response.

Stan looked at the Morgan Freeman statue, this time with a drawn-out sigh. "Well, shit."


	12. Leman

_**Leman: **__A lover, sweetheart, or paramour._

[Gregory & Christophe]

**A/N:** All the chapters preceding this are between 200 and 700 words, but this one got out of hand quickly, so it's the first to be well over 1000. But it's the titular chapter, so I figured it didn't matter too much if it sort of stuck out.

-x-

"Say it again." The first time Gregory heard those words from his partner, they had been issued as a demand—hasty, quiet, and bordering on desperate. The duo had been occupied not too long ago, but in the seconds just before those words were uttered, they were a calm, content tangle of limbs underneath cotton bed sheets, and Gregory had only just spoken three jarring words of his own.

"_I love you._" It had been said so easily, yet it was the first time either of them had tasted those particular words in their mouth.

The blond had the decency not to laugh at Christophe's almost panicked expression, but he did spare a comment in an even tone. "Aren't you going to say it back, first?"

For some reason, the prospect seemed to frighten the Frenchman, as indicated by his wide eyes, grumbling, and sudden motivation to turn away from Gregory, who was then faced with a momentary lapse of confidence. Maybe Christophe didn't feel the same way. That thought hit the blond hard, prompting him to fall into a glassy-eyed state for a full minute until his companion finally rolled back over, draped an arm around his waist, and mumbled "I love you, too," against his forehead.

Gregory had never heard him speak so gently.

-x-

The second time that request to repeat himself met Gregory's ears, it sounded much more _Christophe _than the first. The former was leafing through their latest plot, which revolved around a rather annoying political scandal, and the latter had come up behind his chair just to whisper, "Say it again." It was so laden with the intent to provoke the Brit that it would've been superfluous to even add "I dare you." Then again, he knew it was only Christophe's way of trying to be nonchalant so that he might avoid a situation like last time, where he was rendered extremely vulnerable—something he didn't like to be.

With a small curve of his lips that would go unnoticed by most but registered as a smirk to his dark-haired companion, Gregory assented. "I love you."

"Love you, too." Followed by, "Now let me see that."

-x-

The third time came four days later, and in an irritatingly untimely manner. Gregory was flinging his hands out in every direction to point different people toward the station they sought, saving his voice for the issue of commands later on. They had to work fast; their planned mission was to take place in less than twenty-four hours.

Then, right in the midst of his business, Christophe gingerly settled himself on Gregory's lap and grabbed a fistful of golden hair to yank back. "I'm sort of busy, Chris," he growled, and then narrowed his eyes to glare up at the other.

"Oui, I am aware, Capitaine." The last word was forced out in a mocking manner, and, in an instant, the blond was acutely aware of his desire to bite Christophe. He forced himself to calm down, venting out his last stream of irritation through a sigh. He'd take care of that violent impulse later on in the night.

"What do you want?"

"Say it again."

"_Seriously?_"

"I am always serious, Capitaine."

Another sigh forced its way through the Brit's now-upturned lips before he could even think about hiding his flushed face. "I love you, _idiot._"

Christophe looked genuinely pleased. "I love you too, you smug bastard."

-x-

Gregory heard those words for the fourth time the very next day at the height of their mission.

The two of them had just skidded into a ditch and were pressed snugly against both cold concrete and each other, breathing heavily from exertion and bearing smudges of dusty red dirt on their faces and forearms.

"Change of tactic, Mole: You go left, and I'll take the right."

"Whatever. We're going to catch that bastard either way I go."

"Of course. And remember—_left._"

"Ah, but, I must say something."

"Hurry."

"Say it again."

Thin lips opened once more, tongue poised to repeat the plan, simple though it was. That's when realization hit and blond eyebrows furrowed the same instant a scoff was issued in response to Christophe's demand. "We don't have time for that right now. Later, after this is done." Then, instantly, Gregory was on his feet and rushing to the right, powering himself out of the ditch in one strong push.

Christophe watched the other's quick departure, all fluttering blond curls and thin legs sweeping through the air as he jumped up onto the grass above. The Frenchman found himself paying more attention to his own jump than he should have been; his exit was executed more quickly, but it lacked the grace of Gregory's, for he landed squarely on his knees, fingernails pressed into the dirt beneath him. He lingered, staring at his filthy hands and contemplating nothing in particular, though that nothing seemed very depressing, indeed. Why was that? he wondered.

It finally hit him just seconds later, when he was grabbed by the collar and resorted to clawing at the earth in a futile effort to anchor himself down, that he realized it had been disappointment gnawing at his bones.

-x-

Gregory found him on his back in the ditch, clutching at his side and coughing up blood.

"_Chris!_ Christophe!" Code names be damned; he yelled the brunette's name instinctively by this point. If there was trouble, they could always reach for each other, but now what? Christophe was the one who was hurt, and yet Gregory was the one with arms outstretched, as though _he_ was the one in need of support for his wounds.

"God damn it," the Frenchman cursed, instantly twisting his fingers into the fabric of Gregory's shirt; the latter bent down and tugged at the thin scarf around his neck to press it insistently under Christophe's hand, daring to hope it would be enough to stop the bleeding.

"Press down." His voice was shaking. His voice _never _shook like that. Gregory wasn't afraid of a thing—not one, except this.

"Listen to me," the dark-haired male hissed, yanking the other down another two inches. Gregory was prepared to follow that order, and he waited for Christophe to continue, but he never did. For a startling moment, he feared his mate had died right then, but his concern was alleviated slightly when dark brown eyes blinked twice.

"Christophe?"

"Say it?" This was the first time Gregory had heard it posed as a question rather than a statement; unbeknownst to him, it was the first time Christophe felt as though he wasn't going to be granted that pleasure.

"I love you." No response. "Christophe, I love you. Please— " Please don't what? Don't die? He couldn't, in his right mind, say those words, because the thought that the other might actually stop breathing right there, down in a ditch somewhere in the mountains of Colorado, made Gregory feel sick to his stomach.

It took a moment, but he was answered at last. "Again."

"I love you!"

Swallow, choke, groan—all in succession. Christophe closed his eyes for one second, then ten, then twenty. Gregory felt as though his body had just gone numb, but he repeated himself, regardless. "_I love you_."

This time, he never heard it spoken back to him.

-x-

The next morning, Gregory's colleagues had all packed up and were poised to leave, yet, for reasons unknown to the Brit, they all remained. Either they were all too weighed down with guilt, or none of them wanted to cross his path.

Had he been thinking clearly, he would've moved out of the laboratory so they could pass through in peace, but, as it stood, he was not thinking clearly at all. He remained frozen in his spot where he leaned against the wall, clutching a cup of coffee that had long since cooled. The others didn't want to mention it to him any more than they wanted to ask why he was still wearing his uniform, dirt smudges, blood spatters, and all.

Eventually, one of them did step forward, immediately attracting the other workers' attention, followed soon by Gregory's.

"Greg."

"Kenny?"

No more words were spoken between them after that; Kenny simply moved closer, regarded the other with an odd expression, and patted him on the shoulder before brushing past him to leave the room. Oddly enough, this caught on, creating a pattern of something that he'd mistakenly identified as pity. But, then, half-way through the crowd, he realized that their eyes were not pitying, but glinting with some sort of knowledge that Gregory himself seemed not to know. His curiosity overtook his anguish for the briefest of moments, and just as he had thought to lower himself back into his metaphoric pit of despair, his eyes met the last worker still present in the lab, standing six-foot-one with bandages around his bare chest and a lopsided grin on his face.

Somewhere in the next few seconds, a coffee mug shattered on the floor. Gregory found himself clutching at Christophe's shoulders, soiling his skin with his dirtied uniform and decidedly not caring. "_How?_" was the only thing he could manage to say.

"Your self-righteous Mister McCormick made a deal with the devil or some shit."

"Stop joking around, Christophe. I need some certifiable proof that I'm not hallucinating."

"If you want the truth, I have no fucking idea what that kid did, but when I woke up, I was on your bed and he was standing there putting away bandages."

"You were in my room?" Gregory's voice almost cracked, and Christophe heaved a sigh.

"You didn't go to sleep, so you would not have known."

"You're alive," the Brit said suddenly, taking a deep breath that trembled nearly as violently as his hands. "You're alive."

"I am alive." Christophe raised an eyebrow. "And you are filthy."

Gregory wasn't sure why, but he laughed. "I love you, you know."

Christophe wound his arms around the other's waist. "Say it again."

Again, Gregory laughed, now deciding he'd attribute it to combating the tears that threatened to fall. "Shouldn't you say it back first?"

"All right, all right. I love you, too." He kissed the blond's forehead, then his mouth. "I will love you until Death drags me down to hell." Here, he grinned. "And I do not plan on letting him do so any time soon."


End file.
